


Prompt No.4 - Human Shield

by orphan_account



Series: Hamilton Whumptober 2019 [4]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 16:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20915315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: On the way to a cabinet meeting, an assassination attempt is made on the president's life. Luckily, Alexander is there to catch the bullet.For Whumptober 2019Prompt No.4 - Human Shield





	Prompt No.4 - Human Shield

**Author's Note:**

> "When it comes to LMM's Hamilton production, you, slightlychaotic, ARE NOT THE FATHER."
> 
> I'm not. It ain't mine.

The stage wagon was lopsided, canting to its left despite the relatively even cobblestone roads. George paid little mind, finding himself far more amused by his secretary attempting to keep a modest distance between them while the coach continued to try to throw him sideways into George’s shoulder. With one hand planted on the cushion and the other holding the windowsill, Alexander ground his teeth, staring ahead, lost in though. His eye twitched at the seam, his breaths coming in fast when he forgot to breathe.

Rain rolled down the windows of the coach, thick lines splitting and changing course every beat, water obscuring George’s vision of the outside world. The summer shower devoured most activities set for the summer’s day, quarantining the people to their homes, leaving the streets barren and shops dark.

To his side, Alexander mumbled something under his breath. George glanced sideways at him, watching as the man scrunched his brow, his eyes jumping left and right as he mouthed unintelligible thoughts.

George knew that the upcoming cabinet meeting would be tense for all, but Alexander radiated a dense anxiety so uncharacteristic of him. The man was like a rodent - always working, always moving - but he had never let it permeate so deeply.

Or perhaps his did, and George never noticed.

“Secretary Hamilton,” George said suddenly. Alexander jolted and twisted around to face him, shock bright red across his cheeks. “What is bothering you, son?”

Alexander stiffened. “Nothing, your excellency. I am...merely in thought.”

“Of today’s meeting?” George clarified.

Alexander nodded curtly. “Yes.” A darkness flashed on his face, an uncharacteristic vulnerability that exposed the whites of his eyes, the fears in his mind. “I wonder: what if we cannot fix our country? What then? Will be lawless? Have we created a place where no man is safe?” He turned away, glaring at the floor of the carriage.

George hummed deeply. The thoughts had always crossed his mind. Even when fighting the war, from the beginning, George often wondered if they were making the right decision. With America requiring such concrete and unique building blocks to hold her upright, George wondered if their delegates held what was required to make a strong country. If _ he _had what was required to make a strong president. What if, perhaps, democracy was _too_ demanding? What if, perhaps, they were making all the wrong decisions?

Alexander continued, voice cracked, “I wish to create a world in which my children can live freely, but while I know what I desire, I wonder if the other delegates will agree. I suppose Jefferson will have choice words of disagreement, as he often does regarding my opinions, but what of the others? What if I am pushed away once more? What if I am unable to create this world of safety?”

“We all must pull from our desires, Alexander,” George leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, as he tried to look into Alexander’s down turned eyes. “You must fight for what you believe in, as I will fight for what I do, and Jefferson will for what he does. We must do what we believe to be right.”

“We are in debt,” Alexander licked his chapped lips. “And our constitution is a mess. We…” He hung his head lower. The shorter strands of hair not held by his tie slipped into his face. “Eliza and I...We are...not doing well. And I never see my children. But, is that not the price of our freedom? Is this...what I wanted?” He fiddled with the buttons on his dress coats, a jittery breath pushing past his lips. “I promised my son I would be there for him...and now? I am absent. I am busy all the time.” When he blinked upwards, George looked away from the shine of tears clinging to his lashes. “But I am creating a world for them. They will not know the tyranny of the British. They will never go hungry, nor will they ever have to sleep in filth. So...it _ is _ worth it, yes?”

When he turned to George, George’s tongue seized up. His thoughts stuttered in his mind, unable to formulate even a semblance of comfort for the secretary he has known since he was a young man. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Alexander laughed bitterly. “Or perhaps not.” He leaned back into the cushion, head thumping against the wall behind him. “Perhaps I will never be heard. After all, what am I to the American people? A foreigner. A bastard. A _ creole _ bastard. A _ whore’s _\--”

“You are a soldier.” George’s voice sounded far. Alexander’s mouth snapped shut. He continued to stare ahead. “You are a soldier, a man of noble rank and respect. You were the strongest aide I had in my company, and one of the better leaders of war. And, upon that, you are a diligent writer, a master of penmanship, and a scholar that puts shame even to the parliamentary men of Britain.” When Alexander remained silent, George finished, “I have yet to meet a man of your equal.”

Alexander snorted. “Sir, with all due respect: many of those are subject of opinion, not _ fact_.”

“And what of your origin?” George cocked his head. “Must men live by their blood? Or can he write his own path? By God, I believe you have already, quite _ literally _, written your escape from your homeland, no? Is this any different?”

Even as his time as an aide, George recognized the power behind Alexander’s quill, the fire that scorched through his veins, that fueled his quill when nothing else did. With a studiousness to cut through rock and a mind to shame even the smartest of men, Alexander would catch fire to their enemies with the flick of his quill and a dash of black ink. From the ashes of Alexander’s words and words alone, the government rose, _ America _rose. The man’s words could bite. His syllables bore claws.

Never had George seen such intensity with ten minute’s time, parchment, and a quill.

But at George’s speech, Alexander cringed. He shrunk back into himself, as if remembering something, and George cursed his insensitivity. Of course Nevis was different. On Nevis, Alexander fought to survive but was backed by his people, and had nothing to lose. Now, he had a wife. He had children. He had a country watching his every breath and every move, and it did not help that the whispers of “foreigner”, of “mulatto”, of “bastard” chased Alexander’s coattails, even in the maturity of the courtroom.

Carefully, George settled his broad hand on Alexander’s shoulder, a silent apology. When the carriage tilted sideways again, Alexander didn’t fight. His body rocked against George’s and, instantly, he visibly relaxed. The tension fled from his face, smoothing out the lines of his eyes, releasing their gripping hold on his clenched fists, and Alexander sighed. “I apologize for--”

“Silence.” George squeezed his hand. He kept his voice smooth and soft. Alexander’s eyes slipped closed. “You are not to apologize when there are no misdeeds done.”

Alexander huffed. “Yes, sir.”

The coach lurched forward. George nearly flew forward. Alexander caught himself from tumbling to the floor.

“What happened?” Alexander glared up at George, already reaching for the coach door.

The door on George’s side snapped open. The cold brush of rain whipped through the carriage and Alexander turned around, eyebrows knit as a soldier from the president’s guard tilted his rain-soaked hat up. “Sir!” He saluted to George, and nodded towards Alexander. “The horses have been spooked by something. We are attempting to calm them now.”

“Spooked?” Alexander scooted closer. “In this rain, there are no animals. What spooked them?”

“Snakes, sir.” The man’s voice was barely audible over the downpour. “There are a dozen in the road.”

George turned to Alexander, then back to the guardsman. “Please keep us informed.”

The man nodded and slammed the coach door closed. Alexander made for his once again, whipping it open. The wind smacked the door against the carriage’s body, rain pooling in at the floor as Alexander made his way outside and down the ladder. “For your safety, please stay here, your excellency. I will investigate.”

He made it halfway down the steps when George called, “I was not aware there was only _ one _ veteran in this wagon, not _ two _ , _ colonel _Hamilton.” Alexander rolled his eyes, and a small smile curled at the corners of George’s lips. “Well, if you insist,” Alexander gestured to George’s door before his shoes hit the stone and he walked away, disappearing into the downpour.

George followed Alexander outside, leaping down to the cobblestone. Rain puddled between the seams of the stones, darkening them to look like slick squares of jewelry. There was little light seeping past the swollen grey clouds, and, for a moment, George couldn’t tell which of the three men was Alexander. But his eyes adjusted, and he could make out the shallow slope of small shoulders, the scrawny legs that reminded George of the skinny brown tobacco stalks at his family farm. Alexander held himself in a particular way, wherein his feet were spread, his shoulders squared off, his chin high, as if he were being challenged. His fingers always danced at his sides, ever moving, searching for a quill perhaps, or maybe the quill was Alexander’s only outlet for pent-up energy that seeped through his fingertips at all times.

Alas, the man closest to him, with his back turned away, was his slight secretary treasury. George moved forward. He dropped his hand to Alexander’s shoulder, and Alexander turned, glancing up at him with wide eyes. “Your excellency?” He whipped around to meet the equally shocked faces of the president’s guard before he turned back and said, “Please get back into the coach, sir.”

“What has happened?” George pressed, holding Alexander’s shoulder tighter. “Is something wrong?”

“The snakes, sir,” One of his guards said. “They are not native to this area. Someone must have dropped them in front of the horses. To spook them purposefully.”

George glanced over at the horses, who were whinnying, skittish and trotting in place, unsatisfied by the gentle hands of the driver.

Alexander said, “Please, sir, if you would--”

“Washington!”

George barely turned his head before he felt Alexander’s body crash into him, arms around his shoulders, legs tangled, bringing George down to the ground bodily. A gunshot cracked through the streets, followed by shouts, as George collided with the stone.

His head snapped sideways in time to see his guardsmen dragging a man out of the alleyway. With a full beard, frizzled locks, and a hollowed face, the stranger looked more of a _ corpse _ than a gentleman. One guard ripped the woven basket from under the man’s arm and, as it hit the ground, a knot of brightly colored snakes rolled onto the street. A flintlock pistol, similar to the used one held tight in the stranger’s grip, clattered to the ground, wrapped in blankets to keep dry.

“What on God’s earth…?” George whispered. He moved to sit upright.

George glanced down. Alexander lay still, sprawled across George’s chest. The crown of his head and the fall of his shoulders were all that was visible. The secretary was motionless, save for the quick expansion of his ribs as his breathed, for the slow thrum of his heartbeat against George’s right breast.

Over the hush of the rain, George whispered, “Alexander…?” His hands climbed up Alexander’s sides, readying to move him, when he remembered the gunshot.

When did the flintlock go off?

Before Alexander tackled him? Or after? Did he hit his head on the way down? Was he even conscious?

The attempt assassin screamed distantly, shouting obscurely as the president’s guards likely dragged him away. George’s mind buzzed. He felt the pain registering in his chest from where he cracked with the road, but he pushed it away, pushed it to disregard as he focused his energy on Alexander.

George gripped Alexander under the arms. “Alexander? Are you conscious?”

At the following silence, George’s hands trailed up, brushing over Alexander’s back. He started at the man’s shoulder blades, working down fast, his fingers catching in the folds of the fabric as he scanned blindly for a gunshot wound. Soaked with the rain, he felt the line of his spine, the hard slope of his hip bones. George worked his hands outward when his right one dipped unnaturally and Alexander groaned above him.

“Shit,” He turned his head. Faces peered through windows, and few heads dared to poke out onto the street. George glanced around for the driver, for his guards, before he spotted a hunched figure inching towards him. His arms clamped around Alexander before he could think.

“Mister president…” A ragged man’s voice reached his ears. George blinked through the haze of the rain at the driver of the coach. He held his arms close to his body, shivering in the cold. “Mister president, is mister Hamilton all right?”

“Help me with him.” George said. He worked his voice into a smoother tone, and followed quickly with, “Please.”

The elderly man slowly knelt before them, muddying his breeches. “Is that...mister Hamilton? Secretary Hamilton?”

“Is he bleeding?” George hurried.

The man glanced over his back, his gaze catching on where George’s fingers had previously snagged. He nodded grimly, eyebrows deepening as he turned and said, “He’s been shot. Is he awake?”

George shook his head. “I believe he has hit his head. But I do not wish to move him and harm him further. Please, if you could, help me with him.”

The driver nodded. “Of course.”

Together, they peeled Alexander off of George’s aching torso. His ribs throbbed distantly, but George swallowed the lump of pain and focused on his secretary, who was cradled limp in the driver’s arms. Above his eyebrow, a deep gash blotted his light skin purple and blue. It sluggishly oozed blood, pooling near the corner of his eye. George cradled Alexander’s head in his hands, fingers carding through the wet strands of hair. “Alexander,” he hissed. “Alexander, wake up.”

He glanced up at the carriage driver and said, “Please help me roll him onto his front. I wish to examine the bullet wound.” When the man’s face scrunched, George asked, “Is he too heavy?”

“No, sir.” He blinked upwards. “I do not...do well with blood.”

“Ah,” George hummed. “I appreciate your help furthermore, then. Thank you.”

The man nodded, and George turned back to Alexander. The bullet must have lodged itself snug against Alexander’s hip bone. If he were lucky, the projectile narrowly missed cracking the actual bone, and would instead land in the soft flesh above. But he was unsure and, without a doctor, there would be know way of telling. Gingerly, he lifted Alexander’s coats until he was to his waistcoat and undershirt. The white fabrics were bright red and blotchy, but barely bleeding. Surprisingly, George found himself more concerned with his head wound than the gunshot.

Alexander’s shoulder twitched. His chin jerked down as his eyes cracked open.

“Alexander.” George hissed through his teeth. He leaned down to his secretary. “Please, remain still. You have been shot.”

After a beat, Alexander’s croaked, “I...can feel that...your excellency.” He craned his neck, blinking the blood from his eyes, unsuccessful where it congealed on his eyelashes, sealing them closed.. “Wh...where--?”

“Your hip.” George answered. “Please, hold still, Alexander.”

Alexander nodded weakly.

\--

George stopped before the front door, his hand up to knock his knuckles against the wood. He stilled, jaw tight, and took a deep breath.

Nearly a week had passed since Alexander’s injury, and while Alexander was stalled, bedridden and weakened, the world continued to move. The cabinet meeting was adjourned for the day, but was rescheduled for the next and, without his secretary treasury, George had felt colder in the open room. Every moment he had tried to focus, had tried to listen to what his delegates had to say, he found himself wandering to the question of Alexander’s well being.

Was he conscious? In pain?

The doctor had informed George that God was on his side that day, as the bullet had lodged in a relatively useless patch of muscle and fat, no bone nor organs hit. But from then, one week ago, George had heard no further news. He wasn't even sure his secretary was still alive. He assumed yes, soothing his anxieties down at the prospect that the would was not only relatively superficial, but that his wife had not written him about the matter.

Nonetheless, his concern reigned him in, getting the better of him and forcing his legs to move in front of the Hamilton door.

George moved to knock. He brought his hand up shakily and, with a breath, knocked three times.

Silence followed. And followed. George moved his hand up to knock again when the door swung open wide.

“Sir?” Alexander, dressed with an unfathomable casualness, with his hair down and reading glasses on, gawked up at George. Or perhaps the man was mirroring George's reaction, gaping as he stared down at Alexander on his own two feet, wearing _ glasses _at half of his own age, in the doorway when he should be recovering. Alexander shouldered the door open a bit wider and asked, “W-Would you like to come in?”

“I--”

“Alexander!” The door was wrenched open further, with missus Hamilton sweeping into view, red in the face, hair high, a child on her hip. “Oh! General Washington! I...Come in! Please!” Cheeks still flushed with anger, she ushered Alexander away from the door and settled the toddler on the ground. “I was not aware of my husband having company so early in the morning. Forgive me.”

George slipped into the cool house, shaded by the hot summer sun, and breathed in the smooth scent of fresh fruits and sugars. Alexander leaned heavily against the hallway wall, breaths a bit curt but otherwise steady as he watched his wife dance around George, taking his hat and leading him down the hall.

“You must forgive me, you have caught us off-guard this morning,” she said, smiling back at George. Alexander slowly hobbled down the hallway after them. “My dear husband has been bedridden for the past few days, as you know, leaving many of the chores to me.”

“Your husband does household chores as well?” George glanced over his shoulder at Alexander, who’s eyes were downcast, ears red.

She piped up, “Yes, yes! When he can, of course. You keep him quite busy!”

Missus Hamilton guided George into a quaint room with cushioned chairs and a fireplace, one that had been cold for many months, the ashes swept away and stone polished. Wide windows allowed sunlight to inch across the carpeted hardwood floor. “Please, do sit. I will make tea?”

“Thank you for your hospitality.” George bowed his head slightly.

As she dismissed herself to the kitchen, she snipped at Alexander to sit. George grinned as he watched his secretary go red in the face and drop himself into the closest chair; not without a wince nor pain that lashed his soft expressions. He plucked the glasses off his face and set them atop a book on the corner table. “Your excellency, I was not--...Why are you here?”

“Quite an abrupt greeting, Alexander.” George smiled warmly. “I wished to check on you. It seems as if you are quite well, though. I have not been informed of your condition for nearly a week now, and I thought it best to make sure you were still alive.” A child scurried in George’s periphery, and his head snapped up and over to Alexander’s wife bringing two mugs to their hands.

“Thank you, Eliza.” Alexander hummed.

She said, to George, “My husband was supposed to be resting all this time. Oh, but I cannot hope to keep him from his work. Surely you must know?”

“I do, indeed,” George raised his eyebrow at Alexander as he took a sip of the piping hot tea. “My dearest secretary is always ready for when his country calls.”

“A patriot.” She ran her fingers through his hair briefly before disappearing once again.

Alexander cleared his throat awkwardly. He shifted in his seat, looking as if he were ready to pounce, before saying, fast, “Sir, I was wondering about the cabinet meeting I was unable to attend, as I had quite a few propositions regarding the financial situation and the debt plans that Jefferson proposed. However, I recognize that in my absence, perhaps things have already moved along so I was wondering if you, sir, could tell me what the state of congress is and what decisions you have--”

“Alexander.” George set his cup aside. Alexander blinked over at him. “Please, if you would, stop talking.” Face flushed, Alexander snapped his mouth shut. “I am enjoying this tea before I am to appear in the office, and I would much like to enjoy it without talking of work.”

“Sir--” Alexander opened his mouth.

George held his hand up. “Please, dear Hamilton, take a moment to yourself, son. You deserve the rest, and I would like a moment to appreciate your lovely wife’s hospitality.”

A silence washed over the men as George nursed his tea and Alexander fiddled with his shoulder-length hair. Sounds of childish giggling echoed through the sturdy home, warming a soft flame in George’s chest. After George waited, and watched Alexander’s nerves slowly cool as he leaned further into his chair and relax, he said, “Thank you, Alexander.”

The man bowed his head. “For what, your excellency?”

“You know what.” George set the cup down once again, empty and gone cold. “You saved my life, I have no doubt.”

“Excuse my vulgarity, but,” Alexander laughed bitterly. “The bullet hit me near my ass, sir,” He smiled genuinely, however, a brightness glistening in his dark eyes. “I am sure it would have merely grazed your shin at your height.”

George huffed. “Indeed. It may have.” He stood up and closed the distance between them. Kneeling before Alexander, he patted his hand. “But, nonetheless, I appreciate what you have done. Not many men would have risked their life for another. Though I must ask that, in the near future, I hope you preserve yourself? I do not wish to find another secretary.”

Alexander nodded shallowly, and said, “I will do my best, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm a day behind. And the whump here is minimal at best. I'm so sorry. And it's REAL long, so that's intense. Tomorrow I am posting two for sure.
> 
> Thanks for reading kids!
> 
> Oh! And hey! Hit me up if you know the spelled-out version of Mrs. please. Because I sure as shit don't, but I don't want to use "Mrs." in my writing so please someone save me because "missus" doesn't seem right.
> 
> AND HI, Alexander Hamilton is POC in this shit. I mean, isn't there a thing out there that says he could have been 1/4 black or something? Right? I'm pretty sure I may have read a thing out there like that. So...here we are...


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